


Birds of passage

by silvervelour



Series: Take off your pink cowboy boots [2]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: 10+ years in their futures, Country singer Trixie, Established Relationship, F/F, Marriage Proposal, Take off your pink cowboy boots sequel!!, a wedding !!, backup dancer katya, they’re both around 40
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 14:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvervelour/pseuds/silvervelour
Summary: They marry in a registry office in New York, exactly a month after Trixie’s last tour date.Trixie says that she wants nothing big, and arranges for only her closest family members to fly in from her hometown, as well as Katya’s chosen family and her band. Michelle comes, too, walks Trixie down the narrow aisle along with Trixie’s mother, both of them taking an arm each. It illuminates Trixie from the inside out, and she’s glowing by the time that she reaches Katya at the altar, one of her long time friends Monét waiting to officiate.





	Birds of passage

**Author's Note:**

> hi

Trixie had worked non stop since the age of sixteen.

From her first weekend job at her local diner in her hometown, to moving to Los Angeles at barely eighteen, fresh out of high school and with the world - or at least half of it - at her feet, she had grafted. 

For the first month that she lived in LA, in her shoebox apartment that she rented for all of the cash that she had, Trixie barely survived on four hours of sleep and a single meal a day. She rose before the sun each morning, slugged the early shift in the coffee shop at the end of her street. She’d make her way to beauty school, then, would spend the remainder of the afternoon on her aching feet until her night shift at the dive bar called.

She was eighteen, underaged - clearly so - but they didn’t care much, never batted an eyelid at Trixie as she poured pints and popped bottles, sang on the sticky floored stage for grimy tips of crumpled up dollar bills afterwards.

Rugged men cheered, and Trixie laughed, chuckled exuberantly in their faces, began turning her attention to the women who would pass through, or the ones she worked with, tall and broad and lithe, capable of yanking Trixie out of the daze she kept herself locked in in order to make it to the end of her night at three o’clock.

Her days would repeat themselves like Groundhog Day, the only minute changes coming in the form of lipstick shades and outfit choices, tracks that they played at the bar and coffee orders she concocted for sleepy customers; until she’d stopped.

It took her ten minutes to come to a decision, when a woman named Michelle had strolled into the bar on a Wednesday night, heard Trixie singing her original _red_ _side_ _of_ _the_ _moon_ before offering to represent her, get her signed to one of the biggest labels that Trixie had recognised from producing the majority of her favourite albums.

She’d reassured her it would work out, but Trixie didn’t care, was exasperated with the mundane routine of her existence, the deep yearning for _more_ _more_ _more_ that Michelle was confident she could achieve if she crossed the states to a studio in Chicago, took her life out of her shoebox apartment and into the back of a tour bus -

\- and she did.

Trixie was signed at eighteen, recording her album six months later and touring by nineteen. People loved her - Michelle always stood by her statement that it was impossible not to - and she amassed a following that rivalled her contemporaries before knocking them out of the park, kicking them off of billboards and selling them out of arenas across the country. 

It had lasted, developed and progressed into Trixie’s twenties and her thirties where she found herself happy, content, having released a total of nine albums that spoke of her life, growth, future. She’s able to recall all of it, from beginning to present day when she flicks back through old photographs, eyes the picture frames that adorn the walls of her New York apartment, the dressers that she has scattered throughout.

Trixie’s now thirty seven.

She’s established and successful, more so than she ever thought she would be fifteen, twenty years ago. Michelle’s still at her side, mothering and caring for Trixie as if she were her own daughter, encouraging her to finish her next album, her tenth album that she’s been slaving over for close to a year and a half.

It’s been tedious, creatively draining - Trixie feels like she’s aged ten years in a matter of months because of it - yet she sings, and plays her guitar, spends late nights in the studio that she’d bought herself a handful of years ago as her band accompany her. 

Located down the street, a block or two away, Trixie often trudges home with her eyes half ajar, lashes fluttering against her cheeks with the wind that blows in gusts. Her feet ache, as do the muscles of her spine, but it takes her minutes to make her way to the eleventh floor where her apartment sits, a thirty second elevator ride that she spends tapping her foot idly. 

She lives on the top floor, a penthouse that’s less luxurious than she knows she could afford these days, but one that fits all of her needs, provides a protective shelter to the chaos that threatens to permeate. It had been brand new when she’d first moved in, decorated it with pink and yellow accessories that Michelle had neglected to compliment in lieu of arguing that people would find it jarring, Katya would find it jarring.

 _Katya_.

Only she didn’t. 

She had stepped foot into Trixie’s apartment - their apartment, Trixie often interjected - and laughed. Her chuckles had bounced off of the walls, whirled themselves into Trixie’s ears and painted splotches of red and orange and green onto the counter tops to add to Trixie’s pinks and yellows and greys. They’d blended together, as had their unrestrained grins, fingers intertwined and arms wrapped around bodies. 

Katya had told her repeatedly that she loved it, loved Trixie, and Trixie had softened, lowered her defences, allowed Katya to giggle raucously along with her. Katya stands by her words - “ _If_ _you_ _change_ _your_ _fucking_ _unicorn_ _lemon_ _drop_ _fantasy_ _because_ _of_ _Michelle_ _I’ll_ _personally_ _redecorate_ _it_ _the_ _exact_ _same_ _way_ _all_ _over_ _again_ ” - and stands by her love towards Trixie, but when it reaches December, cold and frigid and snowing on the streets of New York, Katya puts her foot down.

It’s a Wednesday, close to Christmas, and Trixie’s still working at the studio until past midnight for a minimum of five days a week. Katya doesn’t understand how she’s coping, how she’s thrown herself back into the torrid waves akin to the beginning of her career once again. It’s ludicrous, she thinks, whispers to Trixie in knowing glances that she needs to take it easy, until Trixie stumbles through the kitchen door, collapses onto the barstool across from Katya with a huff and a groan.

Katya eyes her cautiously, refrains from reaching out and brushing away the hair that’s fallen into Trixie’s eyes until Trixie sits with her back straight, nudges her knee against Katya’s beneath the table. Katya smiles softly, understandingly, and Trixie’s face drops, breaks into a futile smile before she’s _crumbling_ _crumbling_ _crumbling_.

A tear leaks from the corner of her eye, trickles down her cheek, leaves a singular black line from the smudge of her mascara. She sobs once, and Katya’s standing, rounding the breakfast bar to take Trixie in her arms, rub soothing circles into the small of her back as she mumbles _it’s_ _ok_ on a loop. 

Trixie grips her tighter, and then tighter, and Katya can feel the wetness of her tears on the skin of her heated shoulder. She’s sobbing freely, clutching to the white fleece blanket that Katya has wrapped around her body, her nails digging into it. Her chest heaves, and her lips tremble, the last remnants of her lipstick vanishing as she ghosts her tongue across them. Katya notices her do so, hears the smack of Trixie’s lips in her ear, and then she’s pulling away, holding Trixie at arms length, hands gripping her forearms tightly. 

“Trixie-“. Katya starts. 

“-Doll, I need you to breathe for me, ok?”. She pleads. 

Shaking her head, Trixie pulls away from Katya’s grasp, takes a step backward, she’s still crying, shaking her head profusely with her arms outstretched ahead of her, keeping Katya at a distance. It’s worrying - Trixie rarely forces away Katya’s attentiveness - and Katya’s nodding in understanding, mumbling sorry sorry sorry until Trixie opens her eyes, blood shot and bleary. 

“I can’t”. Trixie croaks.

“You can, come on, we’ll go sit down, yeah?”. Katya tries.

Trixie looks defeated, bleak and frozen like the weather outside that’s made it’s way into their home. Her bare feet are cold - she’d kicked off her ankle boots upon entering the front door - as are her arms, free from the thick layers of her cardigans and padded coat, and she shivers, feels goosebumps forming up her back and down her arms. 

“I can’t-”. Trixie repeats, louder, although mostly to herself. 

“-I can’t fucking do this! I can’t-”. Her voice breaks as she increases her volume, her back hunching and shoulders slumping. She hiccups, high pitched, causes Katya to recoil noticeably, though doesn’t flinch when Katya reaches out once more, takes ahold of Trixie’s fidgeting hands. 

“Trix-”. Katya soothes, stroking her thumbs across Trixie’s knuckles.

“-Will you come sit with me? We’ll go to the couch, if that’s what you want? It’s nice and warm in there”. She coaxes.

 Inhaling deeply, Trixie murmurs an _ok_. She drops Katya’s hands in order to wipe feebly at her tear streaked cheeks, tucks her frizzing hair behind her ears that are bitten red from the cold. Her feet carry her along, mimic Katya’s footsteps that pad slowly down the hallway, into the living room that’s dimly lit by a singular free standing lamp in the corner of the wide room. Vision blurry and throat clenching, she coughs. 

Katya smiles up at her, brow creased in worry from where she’s perched herself tentatively on the left side of the couch. Trixie mirrors her movements, folds her legs beneath herself in order to face Katya. She makes a vague motion towards Katya’s hands that Katya reciprocates wordlessly in the form of slinking an arm around Trixie’s shoulders, and tucks her head beneath Katya’s chin. 

There’s a blanket being wrapped around Trixie’s being before she’s able to blink, able to thank Katya for understanding without her having to explain in gruesome, nauseating details, and Trixie hums contentedly, fights back the tears that are brimming in the corners of her eyes. She weaves her hands into the loose fabric of Katya’s shirt, all black and white stripes, before she’s burying her nose in Katya’s unruly hair that falls dishevelled and wavy, down past her chest.

Katya braces her hand on Trixie’s back, works her fingertips into the notches of her spine. It succeeds in calming Trixie - she knew it would, was positive it would cause the tension in her body to lessen - but then her tears are cascading, and she’s crying silently into Katya, held by Katya, a contrast to her prior sobbing. 

“Let it out, I’ve got you-”. Katya reassures, places a tender kiss to the tangled hair atop of Trixie’s head.

“-I’ve got you”. She reiterates.

“I just want to sleep”. Trixie whines, breathes a faint chortle out through her nose. 

Nodding her head, Katya glances downward. She meets Trixie’s eyes that are looking back at her, intense and wide, and searches them for answers, a reason, anything. She nibbles her bottom lip questioningly when she comes up empty, and Trixie shakes her head to herself in what Katya assumes is disbelief.

“You can sleep-“. Katya presses her lips to Trixie’s forehead. 

“-But I’d really appreciate if you told me what’s up, y’know?”. She offers.

Trixie sighs, nuzzles herself further into Katya’s touch. She hums affirmatively feels the second bout of tears drying sticky on her cheeks, under her eyes and down to her chin. She clenches her jaw, grinds her back teeth until the words that she’s seeking to form into legible sentences arrange themselves in her mind, sort themselves into compartments that are ready to drip off of her tongue.

She focuses on what she’s able to feel surrounding her. The couch is soft, pliable and supple beneath her legs, all suede and plush, as is the cotton of Katya’s shirt, the fleece of her blanket and _Katya_ _Katya_ _Katya_ , all of Katya. Her breathing centres, evens in her core, and then Trixie’s talking, spilling her thoughts to Katya’s awaiting ears.

“It’s so stupid-”. She begins, scalding herself.

“-I just can’t, like for the life of me, finish this one _god_ _damn_ song for the album and it’s stressing me and everybody else the _fuck_ out, Kat. I feel like I’m losing it, actually losing it. I thought my microphone was my water bottle today”. Trixie snickers. 

Katya rolls her eyes, albeit lovingly, scratches her nails across the bare skin of Trixie’s back from where her shirts ridden up, gathered high up on her waist. Trixie shivers, and pulls Katya closer with the arm that she has slung haphazardly across her waist. Katya begins tapping said fingers rhythmically, _one_ _two_ _three_ _one_ _two_ _three_ , only halts when she observes Trixie’s brow furrowing once more.

“Why do I feel like there’s more to it than that?”. Teases Katya.

Trixie shrugs - its an attempt at nonchalance that Katya doesn’t buy - and seeks to ward off the spiel that she’s able to predict, where Katya worries and worries, tells Trixie that she’s overworking herself and that she needs to take it easy; she’s vowed to herself not to listen despite knowing that Katya’s correct, wholeheartedly, has Trixie’s best interest in mind. 

“I know what you’re thinking but just please, don’t say it”. Trixie pleads.

“Trixie you know I-“. Katya starts.

“I _know_ ”. Trixie interjects, visibly relents.

 “You’re overworking yourself”. Katya saddens. Her eyes droop and her mouth curves downwards, her expression pained, effected by Trixie. Trixie nods her head slowly, the creases in her forehead fading momentarily as she sighs raggedly, feels the burn in her throat worsening.

Trixie’s determined, _always_.

It’s a character trait - sometimes she thinks it might be a flaw - that’s followed her since childhood. Michelle tells her that it’s not a bad thing, that it isn’t something to be ashamed of the way that Trixie often is when she ends her days exhausted, ready to sleep through the weekend and the remainder of the month, occasionally. She tells her that it’s refreshing to watch, and that Trixie should feel empowered, and she does, for a brief moment, until she’s left to wallow in her own thoughts, reality hitting like bricks to a house of cards. 

Trixie can feel her existence caving in.

Her tenth album is a single track away from being complete, the track being less than a verse away from fully recorded. It’s insanity, she knows it is, understands that Katya’s right when she tells her that she needs to slow down, needs to take a break from the mayhem that is her career.

Katya’s forty. 

She’d listened to her body a long time ago - seven or eight years or so - and paced herself, began taking on fewer and fewer dance bookings until her only remaining client was Trixie herself. It had helped, allowed her to focus on bringing her career to a stable stand still that she was happy with, pleased with. Trixie had agreed, had gone as far as encouraging Katya when Katya had sat her down over a cup of molten coffee, explained that life was taking its toll on her body, her mind.

Trixie hadn’t argued. It had been impossible to do so, and knows that the situation is the same vise versa when Katya licks her tongue across her lips, prepares herself to speak further. 

“You’re not a teenager anymore, you’re not even twenty five anymore-“. She huffs.

“-Even if it’s just easing off on the touring, you’ve ‘gotta think of yourself”. Katya concludes.

“Well I’m not fucking _seventy_ either!”. Trixie snaps, shoves daggers of looks into Katya’s eyes. 

“I know that-“. Katya rectifies.

“-I know, of course I do. But you’ve got to do it, we both know that”. Her voice is soft, uncertain, and she’s half convinced Trixie’s going to protest when she rests her head back on Katya’s chest, presses her forehead to the side of Katya’s braless breast that’s familiar beneath her skull. She doesn’t, however, and Katya’s left with a dry mouth, a sense of pride that she’s unable to shake when Trixie breathes an apologetic _I_ _know_ into the fabric of her shirt. 

“Let me just, finish this one album and the last of my tour dates, and then I’ll be done. I _need_ to be done”. Trixie vocalises when the air has settled.

Katya says nothing, remains silent, merely holds Trixie with all of the adoration and love that she possess until Trixie lifts herself off of Katya, tugs on Katya’s hand with the word bed floating between them, the connotations going unspoken as Trixie kisses delicately at Katya’s neck.

She follows her wordlessly. 

*****

They leave all of the bedroom lights switched off, with the exception of a small bedside lamp that casts an orange glow throughout the room.

It’s a peculiar thing, a vintage find that Trixie had loved and Katya had loathed upon purchase, but one that she had grown to adore once she’d witnessed the way it enhanced Trixie’s freckled skin further, caused her to beam. Katya likes to kiss across the shadows that it litters across Trixie’s cheekbones, the soft dips of her collarbones and the swells of her breasts, and Trixie likes her doing it. 

She pulls Katya’s head closer once Katya straddles her on the bed, weaves her fingers into the crown of Katya’s head so that she’s able to guide her wherever she wishes, up and down the expanse of her neck before dropping lower to her chest. Katya kisses softly, pecks feverishly, and Trixie relishes in the blanket of Katya’s perfume that washes over her, the sign of familiarity, of Katya.

Trixie whines low in her throat, pushes her head backwards into the mounds of pillows that cocoon her. Katya follows her body, rests on her forearms so that she’s hovering over Trixie, her hair blanketing Trixie’s face in curtains and drapes that Trixie brushes away, tucks behind her shoulders. Katya stares at her, blankly, a serene smile on her face; Trixie wishes she wouldn’t, it feels too slow, slower than it’s been in a while.

“Katya-“. She warns, pushes the name out between her teeth.

Sliding the heels of her feet against the cotton of the bed sheets, she twists, raises her hips against Katya’s, seeks pressure, grounding. Katya’s not going to reciprocate - it’s intentional, Trixie knows it is from the microscopic curl of her tongue against her lips and the way her eyebrow twitches upwards - but Trixie pouts regardless.

“Hm?”. Katya responds, expression smug and patient. 

Trixie huffs, lacks the diligence that Katya possesses, and wills herself to gain the composure that she’s certain that she’s never had, really, in lieu of chasing Katya’s withheld touches.

She’s tired.

 Trixie’s exhausted, all she’s able to think of is the ache in her joints and the way her muscles twinge with every movement. She knows it’s laughable, the way that she clears her throat before exhaling her words because of the hours of singing that have left her voice hoarse, but Katya’s looking at her like she’s always looked at her, like she’s never looked at another woman.

Katya’s eyes close above her, eyelashes ghosting against Trixie’s cheekbones and then her jaw as she moves her head lower, presses kisses to Trixie’s neck that Trixie’s barely able to feel, at first, her skin searching for a harsher touch that she’s come to expect from Katya in the months that have trudged sluggishly behind them.

It’s not Katya’s fault; Trixie knows that neither of them are to blame for the way that their once loving, calculated touches have become quick fucks up against kitchen counters, sloppy make-outs in the shower before and after Trixie heads off to the studio for the day. It’s their situation that’s to blame - Trixie realises more and more with every scratch that Katya’s nails make to her collarbones, her shoulders - but she knows it’s changing now.

 _Change_.

Katya’s whispering words that Trixie’s unable to comprehend into her ear, grazing her teeth against the shell of it. The actions cause Trixie to shiver, and then she’s opening her eyes from where they’ve slipped closed, weaving a hand into Katya’s hair in order to pull her up, connect their eyes. 

Both of their pupils are blown wide, Katya’s lids heavy, weighted down with want. Trixie’s are mirror images, reflecting the outline of Katya braced above her in the tears that haven’t quite subsided since the beginning of the night. She blinks once, slowly, smiles sheepishly at a panting Katya, keeps her teeth hidden behind her lips.

 “Well this is new”. Trixie giggles.

“It’s not _new_ -“. Katya shakes her head, lowers herself to place a single kiss to Trixie’s swollen lips.

“-Just let me, let me make you feel _good_ , Trix, it’s been so long since we’ve-“. Katya’s cut off midway through her sentence, Trixie’s hand tugging harder on the hair that she has wrapped around her fingers. Trixie hums affirmatively, no longer needs convincing with Katya’s eyes locked with hers, a muscular hip providing a constant pressure between her thighs. 

“I, yeah, yes, please”. Trixie stutters.

She keeps one hand weaved in Katya’s matted hair, manoeuvres the other to yank gently on Katya’s shirt that’s loose on her torso, exposing one of her shoulders and the top swell of her breasts. Katya understands, and sits up straight, straddles Trixie’s hips while discarding the shirt. Her shorts follow without much difficulty, and she’s left straddling Trixie in her favourite pair of gimmicky underwear; they’re bright yellow boxers with patterns of bumble bees printed across them.

Trixie laughs whenever she sees them, and it’s no exception when her eyes travel down the length of Katya’s body, take in the sight of her toned stomach and clenching thighs that stretch the legs of said underwear. Mumbling a so stupid, Trixie allows Katya to begin working off her sweater, her sports leggings and underwear that have left grooves, indentations in the soft flesh of her hips.

Katya drags her tongue, her lips across each red impression, each stretch mark that’s raised beneath her touch, and Trixie watches her eagerly, keeps her teeth gnawing into the inside of her cheek. Katya traces each line on Trixie’s skin like she’s a map, leading Katya deeper and deeper into the centre of Trixie, her universe. 

She can smell Trixie already, sweet and musky and dripping, everything that Katya wants to drown in. Trixie would let her, happily, she knows, but then she’s rising, pushing herself up from the depths of Trixie’s body once again in order to press the expanses of their bodies together. 

They conjoin with ease. Katya’s leg slots between both of Trixie’s clamping ones, as do her arms that locate themselves either side of Trixie’s head, the pads of her fingers pressing into Trixie’s dimpled cheeks, the freckles that still remain dotted across the bridge of her nose from the summer sun. Trixie follows, wraps her legs lethargically around Katya’s waist that dips to curve to the shape that their bodies form together, a taught bow and arrow. 

“Talk to me”. Katya murmurs, Trixie’s spine electrifying in jolts. 

Katya’s nipples are pressed into Trixie’s shoulders as she kisses across Trixie’s cheeks - Trixie can’t get enough of her touching her, caressing her face, her entire body - and Trixie sighs pleasantly, intimacy glowing in her eyes. She nods her head, feels her nose brush up against Katya’s in an Eskimo kiss, and flicks her tongue across her drying lips.

“I-“. Trixie gasps out, halts when Katya worms a hand between their bodies. 

She presses the flat of her palm to Trixie - she’s already dripping, her thighs gleaming with wetness, lips parting eagerly - and Trixie grits her teeth, bucks her hips when one of Katya’s rings catches on the puffy hood of her clit. Humming apologetically, Katya begins rubbing small, circular motions, drags her fingers in a _v_ shape either side of Trixie’s clit.

Trixie whines timidly. It’s barely audible above her laboured breathing, the acoustic playlist that Katya had selected upon entering the room, along with the noise that the pale lemon of the walls creates in her mind. The blood in her ears is thumping, and she swears Katya can hear it when Katya ruts her own hips against Trixie’s thigh, gains all of the friction she’s able to find in her soaked underwear. 

“Fucking - _fuck_ , so beautiful”. Katya declares.

She dips two of her fingers lower, until she’s prodding at Trixie’s entrance as she says so, and continues to pour her stream of consciousness into Trixie’s awaiting ears. Trixie nods her head, or maybe she shakes it, she doesn’t know; Katya’s still talking to her, mumbling beautiful, gorgeous, doll, angel.

“I’ve missed this”. Trixie shudders, her words dwindling to mewls.

“Yeah?”. Katya slips her fingers inside of her, crooks them upwards.

“Mhm”. Pulling Katya closer, Trixie kisses her, open mouthed.

Katya’s always known how to touch Trixie. She’s able to make her come in minutes, if she wishes to, though knows how to draw out Trixie’s orgasms for what feels like hours, what probably is hours, Trixie thinks. She makes Trixie feel better than anybody ever has, eats her out and fucks her with more passion, more vigour and love than she knew one person was capable of harbouring in their smaller frame, muscular hands that grope her breasts, pinch and twist her nipples deliciously.

It’s no different when Katya curls her fingers once more, stares directly into Trixie’s eyes with an intensity that Trixie rivals. Trixie bats her lashes, digs her teeth into her bottom lip as Katya fucks her almost clinically, draws static breath after static breath out of Trixie’s inflating lungs.

“Keep going, I’m really close”. Trixie states, tendons tensing in her neck.

“Do you want me to-“. Katya begins, though is cut off by Trixie tugging harshly on her scalp, nails pressing into her skull. 

“ _No_ , stay up here-“. Trixie gasps. 

“-‘Gonna come”. She finishes.

Katya listens, and glides her thumb across Trixie’s clit that’s swollen, throbbing under her touch. Trixie yelps, clenches her thighs, and then she’s _coming_ _coming_ _coming_ , pulling Katya’s head to the crook of her neck where she kisses, sucks, coaxes Trixie through her orgasm that threatens to become painful as she cries, holds Katya close until the pins and needles in her toes subside. 

***** 

Trixie listens to the advice of the people around her who care for her the most.

She finishes her album, eventually, spends three more months in the studio until it reaches spring time, and the sidewalks are no longer ladened with black ice. It brings her a comforting peace of mind, and when it comes to giving her tenth a title, _flee_ _the_ _nest_ seems like a natural progression.

 _Naturally_.

A tour of the same name is scheduled - her final tour, at least for a while, she tells herself - and she plans it meticulously with the focus to take a break, spend time recollecting the life that’s passed her by burning in the back of the mind. She does so with the help of Michelle, the assistance of her band that have stuck by her, in addition to Katya’s constant presence that grounds her, keeps her from evaporating when she’s standing in the wings, guitar in hand before she bounds onto the stage for the night.

 The tour begins without a hitch, and continues until they’ve completed seventy dates across both North America and Europe, as well as a headliner in Australia. It’s maddening; the crowds are bigger than they ever have been, so much so that Trixie gets second thoughts about aforementioned break on more than one occasion when she meets fans, young and older at her meet and greets. 

They tell her of the inspiration that she provides them with, the hope that she transpires in her songs, snippets of her existence that she knows deep down is best continued outside of the public eye.

 _Regretfully_. 

Their final city is one that Trixie’s unable to recall the name of - it doesn’t seem important when the audiences have become a consistent blur - yet one that claims a segment of her heart regardless. She stands proud, centre stage, wraps both hands tightly around her microphone stand that’s become sweaty beneath her fingertips. She glances down, clears her throat.

The audience go silent; they know. 

“So-“. Trixie starts, chuckles disbelievingly.

“-This is where I tell ya’ll that I’ve really been a hologram this whole time, _huh_?”. She banters.

Her joke is mediocre at best, she knows, though is pleased when it draws a chorus of raucous laughs from the crowd. She allows herself to smile, too, ignores the dizziness in her head, her bleary vision and her trembling legs. She focuses on the spotlight above her, the leather of her worn in pink cowboy boots around her ankles, and wills herself to continue when the individuals in the seats observing her quieten down once more.

 “In all seriousness-“. Trixie addresses, grips the microphone stand tighter yet.

 “-You guys know this is my final performance for a while. I’m taking some time for myself, y’know, for my family, for my god damn amazing fiancé who I want to make my wife _so_ badly, you guys”. She blurts.

It’s the first time she’s announced it. _Fiancé_. People erupt in applause, including Michelle who’s waiting backstage - she had been none the wiser, had been oblivious to recent developments in Trixie and Katya’s relationship - and Trixie beams along with them. The speculation has been unavoidable, especially in recent years; they can get married, legally, and Trixie’s made no secret of Katya in the forewords to her albums and social media posts. 

Always _Katya_. _Katya_. _Katya_.

 “You’ve been the best-“. Trixie continues, doesn’t resist the tears that begin flowing freely down her cheeks, streaking and smearing her caked on blush.

 “-I cant explain it, at all. From when I released _two_ _birds_ to now, _flee_ _the_ _nest_ has been my favourite album to write and to perform for you guys, even if it drove me bat shit sometimes. It’s a build up of my whole life, vomited onto this one set of Tracks that I love with every pair of cowboy boots that I own and hope you guys all do too”. She finishes sheepishly.

Behind her, her band begin playing the final track. 

“I won’t keep talking for much longer-“. Trixie promises, receives saddened chuckles from the audience.

“-But I just ‘wanna say a couple of things about this last song. It was one of the first tracks I recorded for this album, back when I didn’t even know if I would make this album-“. It’s laughable, looking back.

“-It’s called _yellow_ _cloud_ , and when I was just piecing together the lyrics, I had this stupidly annoying, happy ‘lil melody in my head that I couldn’t shake. It’s happy, _so_ happy and cheery that I sometimes don’t feel like I wrote it, but this - this song is why I know everything’s going to work itself the fuck out for me”. She sighs, grins to emphasise her summary.

Her backing vocalist begin humming lowly. 

 _I_ _can_ _see_ _us_ _in_ _a_ _small_ _town_

 _You_ _count_ _the_ _stars_ _up_ _in_ _the_ _sky_

 _Never_ _thought_ _that_ _they_ _could_ _fall_ _down_

 _Onto_ _your_ _suit_ _or_ _on_ _the_ _tie_

 _Across_ _the_ _table_ _at_ _a_ _French_ _place_

 _I_ _lose_ _my_ _way_ _into_ _the_ _wine_

 _With_ _your_ _glasses_ _on_ _your_ _pretty_ _face_

 _We_ _can_ _go_ _up_ , _baby_ _we_ _can_ _float_ _up_

 _Say_ _we’ll_ _never_ _come_ _back_ _down_

 _To_ _the_ _place_ _in_ _the_ _yellow_ _cloud_

The crowd haven’t stopped cheering, and Trixie’s unable to deny that it comforts her as she nods her head to her guitarist for what she classes as the final time, twiddles with her engagement ring as she locks eyes with Katya who’s waiting in the wings.

 _When_ _we’re_ _older_ , _we_ _stay_ _the_ _same_

 _Couple_ _losers_ _who_ _won_ _the_ _game_

 _And_ _it_ _gets_ _colder_ , _but_ _it_ _never_ _ends_

 _Say_ _we’ll_ _never_ _come_ _back_ _down_

 _To_ _the_ _place_ _in_ _the_ _yellow_ _cloud_

*****

Katya proposes, unplanned on a rainy Sunday morning. 

They’re laying in bed, wrapped in Christmas PJ’s that Katya had bought the both of them. They’re hideous, ugly, Trixie’s unable to deny it, but they’re warm, comfortable, as is Katya’s body draped over her lap, head resting on her thighs. Trixie has her fingers loosely wrapped in Katya’s hair, braiding miscellaneously as Katya scans the view of raindrops running from the top to the bottom of the frosted glass window. 

The room is dark, for the most part, with the exception of the dim blue hue that permeates through the gaps in the curtains, and the light from the living room that bleeds through the gap under their bedroom door. They’re still able to see each other clearly, and with Trixie’s doe eyes peering up into Katya’s, Katya’s giggling because of the sight of Trixie’s disheveled hair, foot outstretching and unintentionally knocking an empty takeout pizza box off of the bottom of said bed.

Trixie laughs openly, shakes her head slowly as the chuckles subside.

Sitting up straight, Katya repositions herself. She rearranges her limbs until she’s sat mirroring Trixie, both of their spines pressed up against the headboard. She allows Trixie to move, also, until she’s slumped further beneath the duvet, nestled partly into the array of scatter cushions and partly into Katya’s side.

Trixie loops an arm loosely around Katya’s waist, nuzzles her nose into the fleecy cotton of Katya’s shirt. It’s soft against her nostrils, almost makes her sneeze until she twists her head, glances up at Katya in lieu of feeling Katya’s eyes burning a hole into the crown of her skull.

She sniffs, raises a hand to Katya’s face, cups her cheek with her palm. Katya frowns down at her, her eyebrows knitting painfully together, and narrows her eyes when Trixie presses a thumb to her bottom lip, smudges the lip balm that Katya has slathered across her lips down to her chin. 

It’s silent; Katya can feel her heart in her throat.

“Would you ever ‘wanna get married?”. Trixie deadpans.

It leaves Katya stunned momentarily, until it doesn’t, until she’s regaining her briefly lost composure, painting on a mask of confidence that she’s certain Trixie’s able to see through with her all knowing eyes. She nods her head microscopically, and then not so unnoticeably, uses her free hand to squeeze reassuringly at Trixie’s shoulder, the one that isn’t digging into her ribs.

“Sure”. Katya’s attempt to be nonchalant fails.

 She’s beaming down at Trixie - she’s certain she looks manic, white teeth on full display - and unknits her eyebrows cautiously, awaits Trixie’s incoherent response. It comes in the form of a soft gasp that would have been inaudible if she hadn’t been searching for it, observing Trixie’s being for any sign of confusion or uncertainty. 

“Wait, really?”. Trixie’s baffled.

“Yeah, _really_ ”. Katya drawls, swears her response could have been predicted.

Things are silent once more. Trixie rakes her eyes across each corner, each inch of Katya’s face, takes in the way the edges of Katya’s mouth twitch in glee, how her eyebrows raise ever so slightly when Trixie’s eyes begin to water. Katya swipes her thumb beneath Trixie’s waterline, murmurs hey, whispers _it’s_ _ok_ until Trixie settles, body caving in on itself. 

She tucks her feet beneath her body - her bed socks have slipped off of her feet, are lost between the mattress and thick duvet - before she’s reaching for her half empty cup of lukewarm coffee that sits on her bedside table. Katya allows her to sip at it freely, watches Trixie’s soul settle back into her body as she prepares herself, lifts her body to the edge of the bed.

“Hang on”. She exhales, pads across the hard wood floor to the dresser that houses the majority of her makeup, her perfume and assorted hair accessories. Trixie keeps a trained eye on her as she does so, and is gasping, louder this time, when Katya fishes out a velvet box from her eyeshadow collection, tosses it unceremoniously at the bed, towards Trixie.

Trixie’s mind clicks.

“You didn’t”. She blurts.

“I _did_!”. Katya screeches, dives back on to the bed, warms her floor frozen toes against Trixie’s heated shins.

“You bought a fucking ring already?”. Trixie squeals.

“Mhm, what do you take me for?”. Katya smirks.

 Trixie doesn’t know, neglects answering, mumbles unintelligible words of consent as Katya works the ring onto her finger, wraps Trixie in her arms, allows Trixie to launch into a spiel about how she wanted to be the one to buy a ring, be the one to propose, before she’s blocking out each and every thought in her mind, putting all of her effort into kissing Katya - 

\- and kissing her and kissing her.

*****

They marry in a registry office in New York, exactly a month after Trixie’s last tour date.

Trixie says that she wants nothing big, and arranges for only her closest family members to fly in from her hometown, as well as Katya’s chosen family and her band. Michelle comes, too, walks Trixie down the narrow aisle along with Trixie’s mother, both of them taking an arm each. It illuminates Trixie from the inside out, and she’s glowing by the time that she reaches Katya at the altar, one of her long time friends Monét waiting to officiate.

They both wear dresses; Trixie’s is long, sheer and floor length, pastel pink compared to Katya’s above knee periwinkle blue ensemble. They’re a vision - all of their guests tell them so - and Trixie thanks every god that she’s never believed in, every deity that she’s ever had any faith in that she’s ended up here, with Katya, their hands interlocked with the world at their feet. 

The harpist that they hired plays quietly, delicately in the corner throughout the ceremony, and when she begins playing one of Trixie’s own songs, _soldier_ , Trixie lets out a sob. It’s transforms into a euphoric laugh mid way through, and the attendees look at her as if she’s lost her mind before Katya joins in, buries her head in Trixie’s chiffon covered chest.

Soldier is playing, _still_.

Katya is the first to say _I_ _do_ \- Trixie hadn’t been concerned, is secure in where she stands and who she stands with - and Trixie follows moments later when Monét has her repeat her words, slip the simplistic gold band onto Katya’s ring finger. It compliments her own, dainty and traditionally feminine like Trixie has always pictured, and glints in the spring daylight when Katya lifts her hand, traces it down Trixie’s shoulder and to the small of her back. 

Soldier is playing, _still_ , and Trixie holds tighter to her very own.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m also on tumblr @ silvervelour!! come say hi over there!


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